Southern Caravan

A blazing fire dances atop the roofs of Surat's Rest. We were too late.

They came from Raven's Keep — escaped inmates, with a penchant for fire. Now, our esteemed town is a pyre of madness. I tremble at the sight. What would mother do?

She'd move before the sun rose, crown held high. Leave all baggage behind — swift and silent, carried by the wind. The road to Long Keep is a treacherous one... We must make haste.

Glory to Queen Pikemead. Bless the Ancients.

— Jezmina, 507 D.A.

I should have been awake. I wasn't.

They stormed our camp at night with unforeseen ferocity. Their fur coats were mottled with garnet flecks, now fading to matted rust. We had crossed into their new territory.

About half of my brothers and sisters, gone. Absinthe; foul wormwood licorice, a coating vile and bitter, numbing my lips. I fought for them, I raised my axe for them. My armor, ripped away. My hands, forever stained red. We should never have passed through the Pillars of Creation.

Mother. Please, don't lose hope in me. We share the same blood. I will persevere for them. And I'll never fail again.

— Jezmina, 507 D.A.

I never thought I'd see the sunset on this side of the Pillars of Creation again. The eventide was brighter when I was young. A vibrant haze of lavender or grape, a mix of tangerine and marigold, a florid blush before the dark. Now, gray.

I pray the Ancients protect the northern caravan with their glory and light. I put my faith in Commander Cyrus.

Longkeep is in sight... My people tire, but we cannot rest. We have to push harder for every soul we've lost. Our step must be swift, I learned.

I have a strange feeling. This... dread. That I won't be able to linger, that I'll walk alone once more... Why can I not shake this fear? No, this... premonition?

— Queen Jezmina of Orindell, on a mellow yearwake's morn in 508 D.A.